


Not So Easy to be the Teacher's Pet

by Fickle_Obsessions



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Denial of Feelings, Discipline, Hand Jobs, Hero Worship, M/M, Oral Sex, Paddling, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: Headmaster George Washington thinks he knows how to handle his student, Lafayette. He does not. Things get rather out of hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just want something trashy, so you write something trashy. So here is seventeen year old teacher's pet Lafayette and deeply, deeply in denial about his sexuality Headmaster George Washington. 
> 
> Title from the lyrics of, obviously, Don't Stand So Close To Me by The Police.

George has been doing this, running a school as headmaster, long enough to recognize certain patterns. He’s seen enough examples across enough years to know that how the boys in his school interact with him can almost always be traced back to their fathers. 

Distant fathers, for example, those who believe that children should be seen and not heard, and even then seen only rarely, remain monoliths to their sons. So much of their father being unknown to them, their sons tend to assume there is an untold amount of power in a clenched jaw, a stony face. George, master of their school as their father is master of his castle, who is seen but not often heard, seems to be exactly the same sort of monument. The boys speak softly around him, they don’t meet his eye, and in every conversation George can see them just waiting to be dismissed so that they can get lost again among their peers and become invisible to him again. George doesn’t mind it, it makes them easy to deal with. He gets the answers he wants when he asks a question, and he leaves it to the teachers to draw them out of their shells. 

Boys with fathers that are more hands on, to use a euphemism, tend to view George as a stand-in for their fathers, albeit one at least slightly constrained by rules. It doesn’t take very long for them to seek a long sought after victory by proxy against their father, they roll their eyes, they talk back, they challenge. George has learned over time how hard to push back, what battles must be won and which can be abandoned in order to give the boy a chance to stop fighting. Perfect obedience not being an option, George settles for getting them corralled. It isn’t so hard when he reminds them that a suspension would send them home. 

Lafayette is not in either of those categories, but is instead an example of a rarer type. His father, George was told when the boy enrolled, died when Lafayette was young. As far as George is aware no other man stepped in the empty space left behind. Lafayette follows the pattern for boys like that perfectly, at it takes is for him to realizes that George is an adult who knows his name and one that takes even a passing interest in his success. In short, he sets his heart on winning George’s full and total approval and pursues that goal relentlessly. 

It’s a nice break from routine, if George is being honest. Lafayette is tall for his age, making him easy to spot in the hallway, making it easy to watch the smile that spreads across his face whenever Lafayette spots him. All George has to do is plant himself in the hallway and he can watch Lafayette make the beeline right toward him. 

Most times Lafayette doesn’t want to do anything more than say good morning, face tipped up at George, beaming as bounces on his toes. 

“Good morning, Lafayette.” George doesn’t let Lafayette linger, tries to send him on his way with a nod. “Shouldn’t you be getting to class?” 

George lets himself smile a little bit as he says it, and that’s enough apparently. Lafayette’s grin gets that much wider as he walks backwards away from George, promising, “History is right there at the end of the hall, Headmaster.” 

“Well then it will only take a little bit of effort to get there.” Lafayette rolls his eyes playfully at George for pointing that out, and finally turns around to looks where he’s going. 

It’s just nice not to be the hardest part of someone’s day. 

He tries not to think too much about the other part of why Lafayette looks forward to seeing him, but it’s obvious the boy has some feelings. George hasn’t been a teacher and then a headmaster at an all-boys boarding school to wind up with any illusions about there being any sort of natural order to things. He doesn’t kid himself that there’s a particular type that’s inclined toward it. For something to be deviant it has to be distinct from the norm, and George has had all types in his office so that he can talk to them about appropriate behavior. 

George understands it, at least abstractly. He gets that these kids are teenagers cut off from girls entirely except for a handful of socials and dances while they're dying to rub off on something that isn’t their own hand. There are always boys with skin and hair soft enough, mouths pink and full enough that they can seem like a ready alternative. That said, George can’t condone it, because there’s thinking about something and acting on it. He tells the boys that come through his office, pink faced and dying of embarrassment, that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but also that it’s categorically not allowed. 

He crosses his arms, looks disappointed, and says, “You’ve tried it, you’ve gotten in trouble for it, this is not an experiment that needs repeating.” 

Then he lets that be the end of it. He saves his ire for the teachers who cross that line, betray that trust.

What makes Lafayette unusual is how he never even thinks to hide his crush. George chalks it up to him being European, and makes that the reason he doesn’t discourage Lafayette. After all, once Lafayette gets his American education, he’ll go back to France and take over his family’s considerable wealth. George has never been to Europe but he’s heard things are a little more free-wheeling over there. Lafayette ought to fit right in.

It’s doesn’t seem like anything to worry about, because Lafayette doesn’t push much further beyond shamelessly seeking out George’s attention, his praise. Certainly there is no essay or project that is allowed to be submitted without first getting George’s comment, and the one time Lafayette had managed to be cast in a play he’d bothered George for weeks about it, before and after. If Lafayette ever gets a good amount of either attention or praise, he might reach out and put light fingers on George’s forearm, his bicep, but just for a moment. He’s never any bolder than that.

In fact, Lafayette only works up the courage for a hug at the start and close of each semester, and George never worried about accepting them when he had to bend his knees to make it easier for Lafayette to get his arms around his neck. When Lafayette came into George’s office last September though, bursting with excitement to be back, that hadn’t been necessary. Lafayette had hit a growth spurt over the summer, barely seventeen years old with limbs suddenly too long for his still narrow shoulders. George’s arms had fit easily around Lafayette’s waist while standing perfectly straight and that had felt strange. Lafayette had pressed against him,from chest to knee, in a way that set off some distant alarm bell. He’d taken Lafayette’s hips in his hands to gently disengage him, get a bit of space between them, asked Lafayette about his summer holiday to distract him. 

That would have been the last time, now that George knew not to let it happen again. Come December he resolves to give Lafayette his hand to shake instead and that would have been it. 

Then Lafayette, that fool boy, gets into a fight with another boy right in the middle of the hall. Even worse, everyone agrees it was Lafayette who started it, including Lafayette himself. And George has a very well-known zero tolerance policy on fighting. Now there isn’t any way George can think of to avoid punishing him, though he spends more than just a few minutes trying while Lafayette sits outside his office. 

When George opens the door Lafayette is sitting on a chair out there in the hall, hunched over like he’s got a stomach ache. 

George wishes he didn’t have to do this, and it makes him sound colder when he says, “Come in, son.” 

Lafayette uncrosses his arms from over his stomach and George catches a glimpse of his bruised knuckles. There will be a corresponding bruise on Fred Carlisle’s cheek tomorrow, or so George has been told. Whatever it was about, George just wishes the boy had chosen to get angry at someone whose father was just a little less powerful.

After George closes the door behind them, he tells Lafayette to take a seat. Lafayette does as he is told, going over to one of the two chairs placed before the George’s desk, a heavy, antique heirloom that’s been in the school for a hundred years. It can feel like a barricade sometimes, a castle stronghold. George opts to lean against it rather than sit behind it. He rests his hips on the ledge so that he can look down at Lafayette’s face and not miss a detail. 

“I don’t imagine I need to tell you why you’re here.” 

“Sir I-” 

“Lafayette,” George says firmly. “I want you to think very hard and very carefully about whether or not anything you say is going to change my opinion about your actions.” 

There follows a very long and uncomfortable moment that serves as George’s answer. 

George sighs. “Everyone always accuses schools like New Windsor of playing favorites, but if all the families sending their sons here are asking for favoritism, how would that work?” 

A line appears between Lafayette’s eyebrows, he doesn’t seem to know how to respond. 

“It doesn’t,” George says plainly. “That’s why if any boy gets caught fighting, they all have to get the same punishment.” 

Lafayette’s brow lifts now, upset. Frightened. It strikes George that it’s the first time he’s ever really seen Lafayette look scared of him, and his stomach turns over. Even on the first day, the very first time Lafayette had introduced himself to George, he had only looked shy, unsure of how to look George in the eye. George keeps his face impassive, tells _himself_ that this will be over soon. 

In fact, the sooner the better. “I’m not going to belabor the point, because I don’t think that I have to,” George says. “This does not happen again, Lafayette. Do you understand me?” 

Lafayette looks down at his lap, answers in a small voice, “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” George wishes that were the end of it, but it’s not. “Stand up,” he says. 

Lafayette obeys. George looks at him there, shoulders sagging, head hanging down, and takes a small, shallow breath. Licking his lips, he says, “Put your hands on the desk.” 

George pushes himself up and away from the desk the moment Lafayette starts to lean forward. He doesn’t want to see Lafayette steeling himself for it, he doesn’t want to see any more of that unfamiliar fear. He goes over to one of the many shelves that take up the wall the behind his desk and picks up the paddle. 

He inherited it, this little New Windsor rite of passage, just like the antique desk and the little house tucked away behind the lacrosse field. It’s a feature of the school. It’s part of its mystique. It’s an expectation. Alumni mention the paddle to George at the annual mixer, as if it were an old school chum they lost touch with. George doesn't feel half as sentimental about it. He picks it up and it feels much the same as it always does, heavy and smooth. Rather than hesitate he turns right around, back to Lafayette. 

Though he's not sentimental, half as taken with tradition as some, George has been known to make a production of the task. When it suits the situation, he’ll take off his jacket, make a speech, give the boy a chance to look at the paddle in his hands while he listens, let him anticipate it. George can take care of most of the job that way, before it even gets started. He can get the kid worked up to point where they’re fully convinced they know much it’s going to hurt, and George could hit them with any amount of force and get basically the same reaction. 

George can’t bring himself to do that now, not with Lafayette. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to tell Lafayette to count, or to think about what he’d do next time he got burned up about something another boy said. He keeps his jacket on and his mouth set in a firm line. Lafayette, leaning against the desk as George told him to do, looks like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible, but it’s no good. There’s nothing now for George to do but take a breath and mete out the first swing. 

The silence in the room is broken first by the sound of wood hitting Lafayette’s khakis, and followed by the startled noise Lafayette makes after the impact. George clenches his jaw, and goes again. Lafayette grunts again, but softer, trying to hide it. 

The blows get counted silently, three, four, five, each number held in George’s mind until the next swing. He wills himself not to notice any details -- the way Lafayette gasps in between them, the way his fingers slip against the desk, the nervous, involuntary tremor that shivers visibly down his bowed back -- and marks them anyway. 

Six, seven, eight.

In the pause before nine, Lafayette lifts his sleeve up to his face and wipes it across his eyes and George’s follow through stutters, lands but doesn’t smack quite the same as the first, but Lafayette doesn’t seem to notice. He sniffs before, gasps with a wet sound after, not quite a sob. George miserably finishes the job. The tenth strike being doled out, he turns away, and gives Lafayette some time to get himself together, wipe his face, straighten his jacket. 

When he looks back, Lafayette is standing beside the desk, staring down at the floor. His hands are pressed a bit awkwardly against the tops of his thighs, though one keeps darting up to wipe a sleeve under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, belly hollow around the tent beneath the zipper of his slacks, but George doesn’t pay it any attention. It happens to a lot of boys when they get to a certain age, just reacting to anything tactile.

“It’s over,” George says. “Water under the bridge. It doesn’t need to get brought up again.” 

Lafayette nods at his shoes. 

George casts about for something more to say, but he doesn’t find anything. All the thing he’d usually to say to cheer Lafayette up, “Good work,” “I’m proud of you,” don’t really apply. He decides to just give Lafayette some time and privacy, and resolves to say them again as soon as he can.

“You can go back to your room until the bell, but Mr. Adams will be expecting you in Civics.”

“Yes, sir.” Lafayette’s voice is soft enough that George hardly recognizes it. His steps toward the door are slow to start, but by the time he reaches the door he’s very nearly jogging. 

The door shuts and George thinks about the bottle of brown rye in his desk, a gift he set aside one day and then left in the drawer again and again while thinking of some far off emergency, some future bit of good news. He doesn’t break his rule about drinking during the school day, but he thinks, quite long and hard, about doing it. 

At the end of the day, George doesn’t check with Adams to see if Lafayette went to Civics. He doesn’t want to know. He goes home and works his way through a few inches of the rye he has at home, from the bottle that he keeps in the sitting room. It’s over, water under the bridge. It was no different than disciplining any kid he had a fondness for before. He says it enough times, and drinks enough rye that it’s easy go to sleep. 

 

George is not foolish enough to go looking for Lafayette the next morning. He knows how fond teenagers are of hanging onto a dark mood, a disappointment. There’s no telling how long Lafayette will stew about what happened, but George hedges his bets and gives Lafayette a full day to get distracted. George is careful not reopen the wound, he doesn’t see Lafayette at all. He spends the day working in his office, reviewing expenses, requests from his teachers, and correspondence from the parents. 

The day after that, however, George plants himself in the middle of the hallway between Lafayette’s morning English class and the science class he has before lunch. The bell sounds and out from every door pours students, chatting and rough-housing easily until they finally see George standing there. 

He spots Lafayette, a head above the rest of the other boys, just as easily as he always does. Lafayette notices him, too, George has positioned himself to be hard to miss. He waits for the corner of Lafayette’s full lips to lift up in a small smile when he recognizes that George is back to being what he was before. He’ll give Lafayette all he did before, the playful attention, the sought for praise. 

Lafayette’s lips do twist but not, as George hoped, into a tentative smile. Instead they tug down into an obviously unhappy curve, and then Lafayette is turning his face away, deliberately not looking. He shuffles by George as quickly and as silently as any of the other boys in the hall, and doesn’t look back. George watches him retreat and thinks about how he should leave it alone, give Lafayette plenty of time to get over his disappointment. 

He doesn’t. 

George gives Lafayette more time, days, but nothing changes, Lafayette’s lips still curve downward whenever he sees George, he still won’t meet George’s eyes. George knows Lafayette is elastic, he knows Lafayette will bounce back. All wounds heal, George is perfectly sure of that, but in quiet moments he finds himself fixated on the potential severity of the scar. He goes to sleep that night wondering what might get buried under Lafayette’s thin skin and remain unresolved. 

A week later that anxiety is still there in when George wakes up in the morning, it sits there in the back of his mind, gets lodged in his throat, making it difficult to focus. George suffers hour after hour as time ticks by as slowly as possible, trying again and again to find the motivation to finish his paperwork. Well annoyed by the time lunch rolls around, George thinks about how little he has accomplished while eating. At the thought of returning to his desk for more of the same, he makes his decision. 

Before he can analyse his reasons too closely, George sends a message to Lafayette’s algebra teacher, asks him to have Lafayette come to his office, apologizes that the boy will have to miss class. He assures Mr. Gates that Lafayette will complete his review of the chapter on his own and turn his homework on time to make up for the absence. 

George knows very well that Lafayette hates math, the boy will talk about it given any opportunity to do so. The precision needed for mathematics, the need to go over the work to check for mistakes, Lafayette moves forward through time a bit too quickly to think of going back. As a result Lafayette turns in assignments that are almost, but not actually, correct, and he relishes any and every opportunity to get out of math classes. And he likes it particularly when he’s the only one enjoying the privilege. 

George works, slowly, and waits for three in the afternoon to come. After the chapel bell rings three times, he can’t help but sit at his desk paying an unnecessary amount of attention to the noises from the hall. It hardly does George any good to anticipate it when Lafayette will come barging in the way he always does, but he listens anyway and imagines a dozen times he hears the door opening before he finally does. 

The door hinges have barely started squeaking before George looks up and sees Lafayette stepping in a bit less eagerly than he usually does, but he tries to take it as a good sign that Lafayette hasn’t suddenly developed the impulse to knock. 

“Mr. Gates said you wanted to see me?” Lafayette asks, and it’s still too soft, too ridiculously retiring for a kid who has never once shied away from George for any length of time. 

George tries to smile like nothing’s wrong, “I needed some help with filing. It’s not the most exciting way to spend the afternoon, but I thought you might want to get out of algebra for a while.” 

Lafayette takes this news silently, then finally nods as if accepting a deal where he barely breaks even. His mood shifts from a vague confusion to patiently waiting to be told what to do and George sighs, put out. 

“I know you’re upset,” George says. It comes out all wrong, too harsh, too much like a reproach, and earns him a doleful look from Lafayette. He tries again, makes himself be softer than his first usual inclination, “I’d like to say again that it’s water under the bridge. I don’t feel any differently, so neither should you.” 

Again, George tries out a swing and obviously misses. Lafayette looks just as upset, just as stubbornly unforgiving. He’s still withholding even the smallest smile, and George’s temper flares. What the hell was he supposed to do? 

He’s saying that before he even realizes it. “What did you want me to do? Can you answer me that? What did you expect me to do when you got into a fight in front of half the school and faculty? Christ, Lafayette if you’d just been smart about it, I wouldn’t have had to-” 

George stops. His mouth has gotten away from him and he knows it equally from what he just heard flying out of it, and from the look on Lafayette’s face. It’s turned from upset to intrigued far too quickly. 

“Sir?” he asks, suddenly leaning forward, like George has a present for him behind his back. “You wouldn’t have what, sir?” 

George seriously considers spitting out, “Nothing,” and sending Lafayette back to his algebra class, but he’s not so short-sighted as to forget that the whole reason Lafayette is here is because he apparently can’t stand to have Lafayette be mad at him. Barring a flat denial, though, George doesn’t really know how to answer except with the truth. 

He shakes his head, admits, “I would have made an exception. If you hadn’t forced my hand by getting into a fight in the absolute dumbest way I wouldn’t have-” George shies away from any of the terms that come to mind. Disciplined. Paddled. Bent you over. Still he hates to leave a sentence dangling, unfinished. George clears his throat, “I would have given you a lecture and sent you on your way.” 

Lafayette’s eyes get as big as saucers, ridiculous and bright as they stare up at him. “Really?”

Agreeing with him is tantamount to telling Lafayette that yes, as he’s always suspected he is George’s favorite. And boiled down to the thickest possible concentration, that is what you get, Lafayette is the student he thinks about the most, the one that can make him smile most often. George had hit something of a wall before he’d gotten to know Lafayette, too much fatigue, too much routine. It left him maudlin, wondering if what he’s dedicated his life to is actually doing these kids any good. That’s much more than Lafayette can be expected to understand. It’s more than George would ever want to share with him, even if he could. 

“Yes,” George says finally. 

If it makes Lafayette happy, if it will let him rest easy knowing he’s achieved his goal and taken the top spot in a contest that not so many are trying to win, George can say that much. A small concession, inadvisable, not ideal, but harmless. Lafayette will be insufferable for a while, maybe a tad reckless, but it’s not in his nature to get into trouble for trouble’s sake. It seems like a small price to pay. 

But Lafayette’s first feat of recklessness is to throw his arms around George’s neck. Later George will tell himself that as he stood there accepting the boy’s embrace he’d thought Lafayette was simply going to kiss his cheeks as he’s heard the French tend to do. It’s possibly untrue, but the result is the same either way. George puts his hands lightly on Lafayette’s hips, in much the same way that had felt so dangerous at the start of the school year, and Lafayette lifts up onto his toes, lips slightly pursed.

Lafayette presses his lips against George’s and George, quite startled, doesn’t do much of anything but let it happen. As kisses go, it’s jaw-droppingly inappropriate, but not terribly impressive. Somehow managing to consider irony, George thinks that it’s a shame something Lafayette has been wanting for so long should be so mediocre. He tells himself to stop this, set this right, but also thinks a bit hazily that if Lafayette just knew to tilt his head this would be better.

Somehow it becomes a first one, then the other sort of thing. George cups Lafayette’s chin, tips it to one side and helps their lips to fit together like they should. Having done it he thinks, that’s it, that’s more than enough. His hands get firmer on Lafayette’s hips to begin to push him away, but then Lafayette’s lips part with a sigh. He begins to nibble on George’s bottom lip, coy and unpracticed, and all George’s hands do is tighten and pull Lafayette a little closer.

Stumbling a little at the pull and falling even more against George Lafayette gasps, breaks the kiss to pant over George’s mouth and look at him like he can barely believe what he’s seeing. There’s no fear in Lafayette’s face, at least none that George can see. Lafayette looks at him, eyes heavy lidded and his cheeks tinted pink, and George does nothing but stare back at him for long enough that Lafayette gathers up the courage to kiss him again.

His tongue touches George’s bottom lip, tentative, asking. George responds without considering, opens his mouth, and lets their tongues slide against each other as he tries to taste Lafayette and see if he is as he’d always assumed, sweet. He’s not let down, the kid makes a soft noise as George licks past his lips and he tastes like peppermint, like gum he shouldn't be chewing in class. Lafayette's arms cling more tightly around George’s neck, giving him the odd, possibly ludicrous thought that if he were to put a stop to this Lafayette would be upset. Maybe as upset as he was when they got into this mess.

George keeps working his tongue deep in Lafayette’s mouth and recalls how very badly Lafayette reacted to a firm hand, to not getting his way. How long Lafayette could hold a grudge about this, George finds he doesn’t want to know. Lafayette’s skin under George’s palm is soft, his lips are starting to plump up, swollen and hot, and it suddenly does not seem impossible, at least from George’s point of view, to just give the kid what he wants.

 _Once,_ George swears to himself, just once to keep things with Lafayette as easy and as nice as he has gotten used to. Resolved, he sets his mind to guessing what kind of fantasies Lafayette has probably been harboring. Reaching down as he bends his knees, George cups the back of Lafayette’s knees, picks him up. Lafayette gasps when his feet leave the floor, and reacts just as George thought he would, wrapping his long, coltish legs around George’s waist.

George knows his office well enough to navigate them to the edge of his desk without having to break the kiss. He sets Lafayette down, gets his ass perched on the mahogany but Lafayette’s legs stay locked. Where their hips are pressed together George can feel the unmistakable line of Lafayette’s erection, feel the little nudges of Lafayette’s hips against him. How short a time it took for Lafayette to become bold enough to demand friction, possessive enough to unwrap his arms from George’s neck and touch the hot skin on the back of his neck with shy but persistent fingertips.

It’s cause for concern. It’s not that George doesn’t like the boldness, quite the opposite, the feeling of Lafayette’s fingers softly sliding up the column of his neck makes him shiver, run cold with guilt and then flush hot, but for this to work Lafayette has to get what he wants just this once, and then leave it alone. George resolves to put keep things within reasonable limits, and the first thing he insists is to keep this all above the clothes.

He leans Lafayette back, kisses him hard to get his attention and tilts his head back and back until finally Lafayette’s balance is so tipped that his hands leave George’s back and instead go back to brace against the desk. Now having a little room to maneuver, George settles the heel of his hand on the bulge in Lafayette’s trousers, gives him some easy pressure. Lafayette reacts like he’s been giving something far more intense than just a firm surface to rub against. He jerks and whines, and starts to grind up into George’s palm. 

For a moment it seems as this will all be over in short order, and that’s as it should be. Get it done, and send the kid off with a wet spot on his trousers, and then never talk about this again, George tells himself. Only the final shudder George is expecting, the overwhelmed moan, keeps not coming. Lafayette is rocking desperately, would probably be falling off the desk if George wasn’t standing between his spread knees, buttressing him. Lafayette sounds just as needy as he’s acting, whimpering and whining no matter how George tries to silence him with the intensity of his kiss.

George spares a panicked thought about what someone in the hallway could hear, and thinks again, get it done. And this, the press of his hand against Lafayette’s cock beneath two layers of fabric, is clearly not getting it done. He hesitates, two self-given directives suddenly in conflict: keeping this quiet and quick, and keeping this above clothes.

Randomly, inappropriately, one of his mother’s favorite adages comes to George’s mind, in for a penny, in for a pound. It’s silly to risk a rumor on a matter of principle. George lifts his head, breaks the kiss so that he can look Lafayette full in the face. He brings his other hand around from where it’s been pressed against the small of Lafayette’s back and puts it on his zipper instead. If he’s looking for some sign, some confirmation that this is too much. He doesn’t get it, not really, Lafayette lowers his lashes in something like bashfulness, but then he pulls at George’s neck, trying to get him down for another kiss.

George makes him wait while he pops the button on his khakis free, and pulls down the fly. Lafayette’s cockhead is already poking out past the slit of his shorts, already wet at the tip. If George thinks that Lafayette will suddenly find a reason to say no before he wraps a hand around Lafayette’s cock, drawing it out into full view, he’s quickly proven wrong. All Lafayette does is sigh and rock his hips into Washington’s hand. 

Distantly, George is horrified. This is wrong and he knows it’s wrong, but how inappropriate it is does not seem to stop him from feeling how very soft the skin slipping over his palm is, from hearing how Lafayette’s rapid fire breathing will suddenly melt into a long, keening whine. George can’t help but worry that noticing these things, the way Lafayette’s hair smells, the way his fingers flex where they are holding on to Washington’s jacket desperately, feels a lot like just simply enjoying them.

It doesn’t take Lafayette very long with this more direct approach, a few twists of George’s hand around the head, a rapid pace broken up by a few long, luxurious pulls up from the base and Lafayette is burying his face into George’s chest in order to muffle his cry. Lafayette’s breath puffs, humid, against George’s shirt as he shivers through each and every fleck and dribble of his release onto George’s fist. 

There, George thinks, it’s done. He waits for Lafayette to lift his head from his chest. He’ll place a final kiss on Lafayette’s mouth and urge him to stand up, a gentle full stop to this idea, as kind a conclusion as he can manage. After this George will smile at him, he’ll give the boy his pride and approval, but he’ll stay a respectable distance away, avoid being alone with Lafayette. 

Lafayette does not lift his head, but rubs his forehead gently against George’s shirt as if to wipe the sweat away from his. George lifts a hand to his shoulder and he would have pushed, but at that very same moment, Lafayette lifts his own hand and brings it to rest on the erection outlined in George’s slacks. It’s just a tentative drag of his palm over it, but it’s enough to derail George’s plan of action.

Instead of pushing Lafayette away, his hand clenches over his shoulder as he sucks in a breath. 

Lafayette is, of course, emboldened. He rubs again with more determined pressure, and this time does it right over the little damp spot on George’s slacks, right on the sensitive underside of his cockhead. George’s hips grind forward against Lafayette’s slender hand, and he tells himself to stop it. 

“Lafayette,” he says, meaning to warn him, but his voice box is tight. He growls out Lafayette’s name, too low and gravelly to make his meaning clear and Lafayette doesn’t take it as a sign to stop, but a request for more. 

Not bothering with George’s belt or button Lafayette works down the zipper and slips his hand inside. His hand is too soft, too shy. Lafayette is exploring him, not working him over, fingertips sliding over the ridge at the head, thumb tracing the vein. He’ll wrap his hand around it, give George a few good tugs then get distracted, reaching down to touch George’s balls like he expects George to smack his hand away. It’s sweet in a way, but maddening, and slow enough that George’s mind catches up with him at last to say that he ought to put a stop to it. 

He takes Lafayette’s wrist in his fingers and pulls his hand away, and Lafayette makes an unhappy noise. He looks up at George like he’s being unkind. 

“It’s all right, son,” he says, trying to shush him. He steps back to tuck himself away, and in the space that opens up between himself and the desk Lafayette slithers down to his knees. He presses his face in George’s slacks, gets his lips pressed, open and panting, against his cock. 

Dumbfounded, George doesn’t do anything but watch as Lafayette puts the head of his cock against his lips and sinks down. It’s too much, George thinks wildly, this is too far over the line, but Lafayette’s hand is wrapped around the base of his cock tightly, eyes are falling shut as he sucks softly, and tries to fit more of George into his mouth. It’s a sight to see, and George finds himself wanting to sear it into his memory. Long dark lashes laying on his hollowed cheeks, swollen lips dragging up the shaft only to push down again. 

He watches himself disappear again and again into that mouth and thinks each time, that’s enough, that’s _enough,_ but he’s not listening. He’s getting wilder and wilder and his hips have started to nudge, started to edge a little further towards the back of Lafayette’s throat because God, but he wishes he could watch himself slide down to the hilt just once. The thought makes him buck too hard though, and Lafayette’s eyes fly open as he gags. He pulls off coughing, lashes getting wetter every time that he blinks, and George feels guilty for thinking that it’s makes for a pretty picture. 

Lafayette tries to take him in again, though he’s still hiccuping and coughing, so George stops him. With one hand he cups his hand under Lafayette’s chin and tilts it up so he can look at it while the other wraps around his cock and starts to pull. Lafayette watches his fist raptly, licking and biting his lips, reaching up one time to dig a knuckle into his eye and wipe the tears from his lashes. 

When he’s close George grits out, “close your eyes,” and Lafayette obliges him. He shuts his eyes tight and opens his mouth like an invitation, and George is too close to think he ought to refuse it. He gets the tip of his cock of on Lafayette’s bottom lip and works his fist around until finally he’s coming, long streaks of white on Lafayette’s lips, his tongue. 

Wrung out, George braces his hands against the desk on either side of Lafayette’s head and just breathes for a moment while Lafayette swallows and wipes his chin and dear God, what did George get himself into. There is a drill sergeant shouting in George’s brain now, yelling fix this, fix this. 

He tucks himself back into his slacks, and refuses to think about how sensitive he is as he pulls the zipper up. He offers Lafayette his hand and pulls him to his feet, but doesn’t stick around to watch the boy right himself. Instead he goes the pitcher of water he keeps on the credenza beneath the window and pours himself and Lafayette a glass of water. 

Lafayette is decent when he turns back, and is smoothing his hair down when George offers him the glass of water. He drinks deeply from it, with his eyes pointed straight down to the carpet. George sips from his own glass, and puts it carefully down on the desk. 

“I think you ought to go back to your dorm,” he says. “Take a shower.” He rounds his desk and sits down, “I’ll write you a pass.” 

Lafayette considers his offer silently before finishing his water. He takes a step toward the desk and nods at George. “Thank you, sir.” 

It may be George’s imagination but his voice sounds scraped. George places a little too much pressure on his fountain pen and a blot of ink blooms beneath the nib. He ignores it and finishes writing out the note before he folds it and hands it to Lafayette. 

Lafayette takes it and very carefully and deliberately makes sure their fingers brush when they do. George looks up into Lafayette’s face, looking for some sign of the damage he’s done, but Lafayette smiles shyly at him. 

George lets go of the note. “Go on, now,” he says, careful of his tone. It’s playful, but it’s precisely how he would have spoken to Lafayette before any of this happened. “You’re skipping algebra, Lafayette, not the rest of the day.”

Impossibly, _thankfully,_ a grin blooms on Lafayette’s face. “Yes, sir.” He turns away and rushes for the door, all youthful energy where George feels exhausted. 

The door shuts and George reminds himself of the game plan. He’ll give the boy his pride and approval, same as before, maybe more so but that won’t happen again.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [tumblr](http://fickleobsessions.tumblr.com), frequently being shameless.


End file.
